Weak, Pathetic, & Worthless
by MagickBeing
Summary: Harry remembers and the shadows darken.  Panic-challenge!fic. Christmas of 5th year. AU. T for some violence.


**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and co. are property of J.K. Rowling and her various publishers. No copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N: **Please R&R. Again, I haven't written anything in a long time, obviously, so this is kind of exciting for me. (:

**The Challenge: **Set in 4th or 5th year, when Sirius is alive. Harry is at Sirius's house, maybe for Christmas, and something someone says triggers a very, very bad reaction in Harry and causes him to have a panic attack.

**Weak, Pathetic, & Worthless**

_by MagickBeing_

(1/1)

"You're destined to do great things, Harry," Sirius said warmly, affection shining in his eyes. "I have faith in you."

Harry flushed, eyes downcast.

He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor.

"Thanks," he said quietly, furrowing his brow. He dared to look at his Godfather. "But what if that's misplaced?"

Sirius gave him a sad smile.

"I know you didn't ask for this, Harry. No one would. But you've been chosen, whether it was by your choice or not—and everything happens for a reason. I've had to fight to believe that—it's the only thing that's gotten me through all of this.. gotten me here, with you. Almost free. Safe, at least for now."

Harry looked away, eyes catching on the Christmas tree in the corner. It looked to be covered with dust, although they had preformed several cleaning charms—its color was faded with age and misuse, its branches drooping under the weight of its ornaments.

That's what Harry felt like right now.

Misused, discolored. Dropping under the weight of his responsibility.

Sirius pressed on.

"That belief might not make it easy, but it will make it bearable if you let it."

"How?" the question was so quiet, Harry was unsure he had asked it out-loud.

How did Sirius think he was strong enough to do this? Voldemort had years of experience on his side—knew curses Harry hadn't even read about—and surely, surely his luck was bound to run out eventually. How many more people had to die because of him? How many more people had to die because he wasn't quick enough defeating Voldemort?

Before Sirius could answer, Ron burst into the room, his arms loaded with brightly covered boxes. Hermione trailed behind him, levitating several more with a smile.

The tenseness around Harry and Sirius was almost palpable.

"Look what just came, 'Arry!" Ron said enthusiastically, shifting his load. His smile faltered as Hermione nudged him hard in the side, giving a pointed look to Sirius and Harry.

He grumbled.

"What, 'Mione?"

She cleared her throat, gesturing with a shake of her head.

Ron looked back at the two men as Sirius sighed.

"Oh," he mumbled, looking slightly sheepish. "Ohhh. We aren't... interrupting.. are we?"

Sirius turned and offered him a smile.

"You can never interrupt with presents," he laughed, casting a brief look back at Harry. "We'll talk later?"

Harry nodded, eyes still on the Christmas tree.

"Later."

Sirius moved closer to Ron, taking several of the boxes from his arms and lightening his load—Hermione brushed past the two, gracefully setting several bright boxes under the Christmas tree with one languid flick of her wrist. She stepped closer to Harry, breaking his concentration on the tree.

He offered her a smile, green eyes meeting brown.

Concern marred her face—she gave him a questioning look.

"How are you holding up, Harry?" she asked quietly, surveying his face. This was the first time he had emerged from his room since they had gotten here several days ago.

"I'm fine, 'Mione," he answered, hoping his lie sounded smoother to her than it did to him.

She frowned.

"No one expects you to be fine, Harry. You don't have to pretend."

Sirius and Ron busied themselves with organizing the Christmas gifts, trying to act as if they weren't hanging on Hermione and Harry's every word.

He looked away from Hermione, watching Ron's jerky movements.

"I'm _fine,_" he insisted, scuffing his shoe again.

She sighed.

"Okay. But if you need to talk—I'm here for you, Harry. _We're _here for you." She gestured toward Ron and Sirius.

"Just know.. _please _know.. Cedric—" she hesitated, a grimace flashing across Harry's face. "—it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve that guilt."

Something in him cracked.

He looked at her, jaw clenched.

"And he didn't deserve to die—"

He stopped. The words were hard, angry, and considerably louder than he had intended—Hermione sighed again, frowning.

She finished the sentence for him.

"But you did?"

Harry dropped his eyes to the floor.

"_You deserve to die, Potter. You deserve this."_

His breath caught in his throat.

Hermione moved closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Harry?"

_A hand against his shoulder, pushing him hard against a wall—it caught him off guard, surprised him, and he looked to his left as the shadows moved._

Harry jerked away, stumbling back.

Hermione withdrew her hand as if she had been bitten.

"Harry—I—are you okay?"

He studied her for a moment, panic written across his face. He wasn't really looking at her, but past her.

_He had been walking through the corridors alone, headed back from the library to the Gryffindor towers. A staircase had changed, however, and he was in a hallway that he didn't recognize—and then a hand was against his shoulder, pushing him hard against a wall._

_It caught him off guard, surprised him, and he looked to his left as the shadows moved, a figure stepping out from the flickering torchlight. They raised their arm and Harry barely had time to react._

"_Hey—"_

"_Silencio!"_

Before Harry could register the worry written across his friend's faces, he had turned, darting out the door and down the hallway. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, triggering his fight or flight response and causing him to shake. He couldn't tell if Hermione, Ron or Sirius were following him—he could only hear his heartbeat and the sound of his shoes against the flooring.

He only slowed when his legs would carry him no longer, feeling weak, like someone had cast a jelly-legs jinx.

Harry looked down at his feet, taking a careful, but staggering, step forward. He tried focusing on the simple task of walking, but his heart was quickening in his chest, moving up his throat and choking him—he was weak, pathetic, and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. He stumbled, narrowly catching himself on a nearby wall. His elbow caught on a tattered curtain, dust clouding his vision.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest tightening.

Harry could hear his heartbeat; it was painfully loud, a hard _thump! thump! _in his ears.

Weak. Pathetic. Worthless.

The words echoed around him, intruding every thought.

_He slid down the wall, gasping for air as the cloaked figure in front of him raised their wand, lifting another curse._

_They stepped closer, bending down so that their wand was at Harry's throat. He looked up hesitantly, searching the dark face—the figure spit at him, hitting him squarely on the jaw._

"_You're _pathetic._"_

Harry slid down the wall, pulling his legs to his chest and sucking in a deep, shuddering breath.

"_So _fucking _pathetic."_

_There was such malice in their voice—such hate, tainted with disgust. Harry looked down at the ground, searching for his wand. It was mere meters away—another figure stepped out of the shadows, stepping on it with the heel of his boot. Harry's eyes flicked to their face which was, like the other man's, shadowed by their hood and a charm._

"_Looking for this?" he sneered, a smirk apparent in his voice. He pressed down with his shoe, the wood cracking slightly as it ground into stone. "You're not so brave without your filthy little friends, are you?"_

Filthy. He was filthy, too.

He wrapped his arms around his knees, his breathing coming out in hard, sharp gasps.

"_You filthy, worthless Mudblood lover—do they really expect you to _save _them? You can't even save yourself!" a hard voice sneered, pausing to once more spit in his face. One of the other cloaked figures landed a hard blow to his stomach. Harry folded into himself, his arms trying to protect his abdomen only to be pried away by someone's boot. "You're _pathetic, _Potter. Weak—worthless!"_

_That voice—deja vu washed over him, a sense of familiarity despite the charms used to disguise it. He could almost put a name to the voice, but it felt as if he were underwater, searching, his fingertips just brushing it but refusing to grasp._

_Someone kicked him again and the familiarity disappeared._

Harry's abdomen ached, as if he were reliving the torture in his mind. The darkness behind his eyelids blurred, wavered, and increased.

_It hurt so much—they kept kicking him, hitting him, _clawing _him—again and again and again. His breathing was labored, painful, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. His throat was raw from screaming, but no sound came from his mouth. The attackers had silenced him with a simple charm—he was fairly certain his eyes were open, now, but the darkness was still there._

_It was always there._

"_You deserve this, you know," said the instigator, his tone matter-of-fact. "You deserve what ever Death gives you."_

_He deserved it?_

_This?_

He deserved this.

It was his fault that Cedric had died—that others would no doubt follow in his path. He was too weak, too pathetic to be the person the Wizarding World needed.. to be their hero.

Too worthless.

"_You deserve this."_

_Another kick._

Harry fell to his side, his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

_And another._

He whimpered, becoming light headed.

_And another._

He was coughing, unable to breathe.

_And another. The shadows darkened._

_So pathetic._

He could hear the blood rushing through his ears, drowning out the sound of his heartbeat and labored breathing.

So pathetic.

And the shadows darkened, his body relaxing against the cold floor as he gave into them.


End file.
